Murdering a Crow
One, for sorrow,
Piteously limping.
Two, for joy,
or vengeance, who knows?
Who knows the heart of a magpie?
Two circling one,
murderous crows.
All, of course, quite natural,
but Nature's course is slow.
We didn't interfere in it;
the slick dulling of one's sheened feathers
to the semblance of an oil-spill survivor.
This blood, at least, was not on human hands.
Not on clean, office hands
that tap dance on technology,
fold paper and make tea.
I idly dreamed of saving it
and having a pet magpie
like a children's book hero.
But dreams like that couldn't live there.
It was an orderly place
of paper fasteners, spreadsheets
and desk ergonomics for safety.
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